


life: in-progress

by commovente



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Summer, kenma-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commovente/pseuds/commovente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the course of a week, and the currents of kenma's everyday contracting, expanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life: in-progress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fish_wifey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fish_wifey/gifts).



> hello hello, and happy (summer) hols c:
> 
> it was absolutely lovely reading through all of your prompts, so i hope this gift is to your liking! nekoma's got such a cohesive team dynamic i've always wanted to try capturing and this gave me the chance to try just that, and i'm super glad for it; i had fun writing this, and hope you enjoy reading it, too!

**:01 _mon**

Summer for Kenma sinks in alongside sunshine-soaked afternoons, ordinary practice drills stretched out to the tune of sweat and heat and the call of cicadas, Tokyo’s seasonal soundtrack. He starts splitting popsicles with Kuro on the way home, half of a whole G _ari Gari-kun_ traded away for the promise of zero conflicts over flavour, only the cool sweetness trickling down Kenma’s throat, sticky trails pooling over Kenma’s palm, the inside of his wrist.

“Ah, that hits the spot.” Kuro yawns, the languid shape of his words matched only by the fluid shake of his arms, swinging them out and up behind his head. “Totally refreshing.”

“You sound like an old geezer, Kuro,” Kenma mutters. His own hands shift down to his pockets but Kuro beats him to it, handkerchief materialising from his own pocket into Kuro’s hand, then tucked carefully into the slow curl of Kenma’s fingers.

Kenma blinks at it and away, gaze sliding to the sidewalk, the road, cracked concrete bleeding into bitumen, everything a little less put together under melting summer skies.

“…Definitely an old geezer.”

“Oi, oi, I just gave you my handkerchief.”

Wiping away the sticky swirls of condensation from his hands, Kenma nods. Just once. 

“Yeah.” And then he hands the handkerchief back to Kuro.

 _“Kenma,”_ Kuro says. He still uses it, though, deftly wipes at his fingers before slipping the handkerchief back into his pocket.

Kuro’s always like that, mismatched pieces fitting snug in his own skin, if never quite the same way everyday. He’s still Kuro, though, and Kenma’s Kenma, his own skin at once spread too thin and too tight, completely his own. His bangs cling to the sides of his face but kenma sighs anyway, lets his breath puff up and dissipate, warmth into warmth, air into air.

“Kenma,” Kuro repeats, considering. “Wanna stop somewhere before heading back?”

“Don’t we always,” Kenma says, already making the turn for the long way home, Kuro’s mouth an answering curve as he turns too. Their footsteps are out of time but still keep the same pace, follow the same tune. Perhaps they’ve always been like this, similar and different, synchronised in spirit and complementary in everything else.

Kuro laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

And perhaps, Kenma muses, perhaps this is how they’ll always be, steps just two beats apart, no matter how many breaths away. Kenma hums, lets the sun and Kuro’s voice wash over him, painting the rest of the street with the easy hues of familiarity as he reaches into his pocket for his phone, 8bit BGM measuring every minute, every mile.

 

 

**:02 _tues**

“Kenma-san,” Lev insists, Kenma sticking out his knee to stop lev from dropping down onto his, too. “One last time, _please.”_

“You said that five last times ago.” Kenma nudges at Lev until Lev stands up properly again, expression no less imploring for the added distance. Unmoved, Kenma levels him a final stare before bending down to pick up the volleyball closest to him.

Suddenly Lev beams. “So that’s a yes!”

“No.” 

“You heard him.” Yaku raps his knuckles over Lev’s chest as he passes by, collecting the volleyball Kenma deposits onto the growing pile Yaku’s carting around. Lev’s mouth flaps open, presumably to resume his pleas at Yaku instead, sending what little possibility he had of squeezing in some more practice straight down the drain. 

When Kenma glances back at them, dropping several more stray volleyballs into the cart by Yaku’s side, Lev’s tilted sideways since Yaku’s tugged him down by his ear. Lev’s still yammering on, though, so whether or not he actually registers what Yaku’s trying to tell him is anyone’s guess. Kenma definitely doesn’t catch anything from where he’s listening again.

Yaku must realise this, too, because he lets go of Lev’s ear to fist both hands into the chest of Lev’s shirt, pulling him down fast enough to knock both their heads together. Startled into a squawk, Yaku takes advantage of Lev’s following silence to say, “We’re heading out for food, idiot. And I’m definitely not locking up after you finally decide to catch up with everyone else.”

“…Oh,” Lev says, hushed, wondering. Then, again: _“Oh!”_

“Yes, oh.” Yaku shakes his head, releasing Lev to help speed up Kenma’s volleyball retrieval. Whooping, Lev dashes over to the volleyball cart, shadowing Kenma and Yaku with lacklustre finesse he more than makes up for with enthusiasm. Deciding making Lev shut up is, as it usually is, a lot more troublesome than it’s worth, Kenma lets him chatter away, even drops a reply or two.

Mostly he’s content with Yaku filling in the rest of the gaps, stoppering Lev when he goes too far while bursting into short bouts of laughter himself, shaking his head at Kenma like, _are you seeing this._

 _K_ enma is, so even though he doesn’t laugh along with them he smiles, just a little, less at the conversation at hand and more for the way Lev lights up with whatever he does, rapt and exuberant; the way Yaku’s brighter, too, self-contained and sure, steadying even the shakiest of sidesteps, hands at Lev’s shoulder fierce but fond.

He doesn’t think Lev notices his smile, though he knows Yaku does. He claps Kenma over the shoulder when they’re all set to lock-up, and _that_ Lev notices, stumbling between them as they walk, wheedling promises for Kenma to set for him again tomorrow, forgetting or disregarding the fact that Kenma would anyway; practice is practice. Besides, for the most part Lev’s started improving in leaps and bounds. Kenma finds tossing for him now feels a lot less troublesome than it used to; feels a lot less troublesome than anyone else might expect.

 

 

**:03 _wed**

Kenma sits himself next to Shouhei on the bus back to Nekoma after the afternoon’s practice match finished, two sets to one in Nekoma’s favour. Shouhei doesn’t really talk a lot. but neither does Kenma, so usually what happens is Shouhei will peek over Kenma’s shoulder at whatever game Kenma’s working his way through, and Kenma doesn’t bother making a fuss about letting him.

Shouhei’s pretty good at rhythm games, actually. sometimes, if Kenma’s feeling especially drained he’ll let Shouhei finish a few rounds for him while he naps, still unwilling to lose progress in the face of something as trivial as sleep. And it’s not like Kenma’s too tired to play today but he passes Shouhei his phone anyway, making a face when Shouhei latches onto it gleefully, snickering quietly when he notices the look on Kenma’s face.

Tilting his head to the window, Kenma tips forward, head bumping against the glass, the motion of the bus sets his head into a slight buzz, warping the reflections of the rest of his team a few degrees stranger: Lev and Inuoka, restless and relentlessly energetic up the back of the bus; Shibayama trying to calm everyone down a little as Kuroo shamelessly eggs them on, Tora crowing out laughter unmistakeable even through one ear muffled against the windowpane.

“A real rowdy bunch, aren’t they?”

Nodding once, Kenma’s cheek smudges along the window to peer up at Kai, who’s twisted around in his seat to look out over the rest of the bus. Shouhei huffs quietly in lieu of answer, the chirpy beat of a particularly tricky song drifting up from Kenma’s phone. Kenma shrugs.

“Can’t be helped,” Kenma mutters. Kai grins.

“True. I don’t think anyone could stop them if they tried; not once they got going, anyhow.”

“Would you want to?” Shouhei pipes up amidst the beat. Kenma and Kai turn to look at him, but Shouhei’s already tapping furiously once more at the screen. “If you could stop them,” he tacks on, afterthought to an upbeat chorus of _We’ll surely get there if we work as one, let’s go —_

“Well.” Kai pauses, humming thoughtfully like he’s truly considering it.

Kenma snorts. “Not really. Somehow, it’d be even more annoying if the bus was quiet.”

“True,” Kai agrees, serious. “Then we’d all be stuck listening to Kuroo snore again.”

Shouhei doesn’t respond to that, but he does respond to Kenma’s head thunking back against the window, Kenma only distantly acknowledging he’d lifted it from the glass in the first place, jolted at Kai’s insinuation. Pausing the game, Shouhei only shrugs, the sleeve of his shoulder shifting against Kenma’s own.

“That bad, huh.”

The music doesn’t start up again, alerting Kenma to the fact that Shouhei hadn’t paused at all; he’d already finished the level. Then, like he notices Kenma looking, he slides the phone back to Kenma before Kenma grows too conscious at having been caught staring. He doesn’t, though, not even when Kai leans his arms and head at the back of his seat to watch Kenma reboot the app curiously.

Shouhei must be explaining how it works — Kenma can feel their shoulders knocking up and into each other again, like he’s fidgeting, almost thrumming in an understated sort of excitement.

“Impressive,” he hears Kai murmur, hearing Tora’s attention catch onto them, too, bracing his shoulders moments before Tora slams against the back of his seat, yelling, “Hey, have you cleared that level _already —_ I’ve been stuck for days!”

“Tora,” Kenma says, “You’re gonna make me miss. Shut up.”

“As if,” Tora answers immediately. Kenma doesn’t know if he means Kenma wouldn’t miss for anything, or if he wouldn’t shut up for anything. Maybe it’s both — isn’t that how Tora is?

“He is very good,” Kai adds. Actually, it was Shouhei that cleared the level Tora’s stuck on, but Kenma doesn’t point that out, just lets his fingers dance across the screen, Shouhei sliding in a few words alongside Kai and Tora’s commentary, not once letting on his own score, either.

It’s loud and chaotic, a whirlwind Kenma has long since accustomed to running with instead of around. In any case, the bus rides back never feel long enough to intervene, and today proves no exception.

 

 

**:04 _thurs**

Even though they’re not in the same class, Kenma still eats lunch with Tora more days than not. Originally, the habit first formed from mutual benefit — Kenma somehow manages to consistently nab Yakisoba bread from the school store before the lunchtime rush takes over to devour all available bread whole. 

Also, giving bread to Tora all but guarantees his gratitude in the form of company and constant conversation all the way until the end of break. And what _that_ ensures is almost everyone else leaving them alone, a safe bubble built out of the volume of Tora’s loud personality, his brash kindness.

Today Kenma sets out to find Tora himself. He’s taking too long, and Kenma already brings enough lunch money for extra bread he can’t finish himself, and Kenma’s definitely not asking Tora’s classmates for his whereabouts, which means Tora really better show up any second now —

“Ah, there you are! I went to pee but then you weren’t in your class when I checked, so — Oi, Kenma, are you listening —.”

Kenma shoves the Yakisoba bread at Tora’s face, who opens his mouth to chomp onto the bread instead of dodging, still talking through the packaging, almost chewing his way straight into the bread. Not like kenma hears a word he’s trying to say.

Tora’s easy enough to read, though.

“You took too long,” he says, veering slightly away from Tora as Tora rips the bread from his mouth, crumbs and scraps of plastic spewing in every direction as he waves the bread at kenma for emphasis.

“The call of nature,” Tora says, the cadence of his words giving the impression he’s said this before, “Waits for no one, Kenma.”

“Neither do I,” Kenma points out.

Tora nods vigorously. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right — here, I’ll split it in half with you.”

“Don’t want it,” Kenma shoots back.

“Not the bread,” Tora says. “What kind of lowlife gives out chewed bread? I meant _this_ …”

Digging into his bag as they walk back to Kenma’s classroom, Tora fishes out half of a whole apple pie to set on Kenma’s desk.

Kenma sits down immediately.

Beaming down at him, Tora passes a fork before dragging a chair over to Kenma’s desk, too.

“Had extras from home yesterday,” he explains.

“Thanks for the food.” Kenma pokes his fork into the pie.

“Thanks for the food,” Tora echoes, clapping his hands together and digging into his bread.

 

 

**:05 _fri**

Drawn by the unseen, undeniable pull, they’re already huddled together before Kuro so much as opens his mouth. Kuro blinks, pleased, smile rolling off his lips slow and sure. Kenma inhales, steadying himself for what follows next.

“We are the body’s blood,” Kuro says, “So flow smoothly and circulate oxygen so the brain functions normally.”

Exhaling, Kenma feels the way his shoulders sink and buoy with it, borne down and lifted up by the weight of his breathing, an even rhythm beside Tora’s, Kuro’s, everyone in Nekoma. 

“You heard him,” Kai says. Yaku rolls back his shoulders and grins. next to him, Shouhei bobs his head, focused and ready.

When they break away Tora howls, “Let’s go!”

And, as one, they do.

 

 

**:06 _sat**

Morning arrives late, carrying Kenma into consciousness just after noon. Squinting back into some semblance of clarity, for a moment Kenma is still, silent. When he shifts to reach for his phone the rustle of skin against clothes against sheets jolts him back into the deepset ache of his muscles, fresh and faraway all at once with every movement he makes, unshakeable markers of effort, of victory.

12.14 p.m, Kenma’s phone informs him. He lets it drop beside him on the bed, the light of the screen intermingling with the light from the window on his pillow, bright against bright against bright. 

It is too much and it isn’t, Kenma’s reflexes wading through a fog of oversleep even as his brain spins into fast, brief suggestions to sit up, or check his messages, or eat, or go back to sleep and do nothing at all. He rolls onto his side instead, lays his hand over the screen of his phone, still warm from holding it before.

When it buzzes Kenma takes his time pulling it open but taps out a response immediately. Then, anticipating a flurry of back and forth  texts in response Kenma sighs, finally pushing himself up onto his elbows. He sits up, swings his legs to dangle over the side of the bed for another few minutes. And finally, his phone buzzes again.

Taking it with him when he stands, Kenma slips the door to his room open and shut. Begins the rest of his day, and whatever may arrive with it shuffling along in due course.

 

> From: Shouyou
> 
> keeeenmaaaaa!!! how'd t he match go yesterdya did u win???? karasuno won 2-1
> 
> (Received 6.54 A.M)

 

> To: Shouyou
> 
> we won, too.
> 
> (Sent 12.23 P.M)

 

> From: Shouyou
> 
> YAAAAYYY how was i t was it a close ga me who’d u play against, hey, k enma,
> 
> (Received 12.26 P.M)

 

 

**:07 _sun**

Nothing much happens on the walk to the conbini, most everybody — Kenma included — unwilling to make a trip by foot anywhere in the heat, all-encompassing, all-consuming. Still, they’re out of milk, and Kenma may as well get some more, seeing as he finished the last of it.

The slide of the doors into air-conditioning and the bop of a radio by the counter is by far the most eventful part of Kenma’s outing. He dawdles between the frozen goods aisle and the rest of the store, alternating his weight into cold or heat as necessary, feeling significantly more at ease as his body returns itself into tolerable temperatures.

Sweat still curls at the back of Kenma’s collar, though, damp at the tips of Kenma’s hair. But Kenma can’t do anything about that, so he lets it be. 

And at last, Kenma steps into the frozen goods aisle proper, though a hand darts out to pull at the handle to the freezer Kenma reaches for. Annoyed and on edge, Kenma stops, head tilted to the side, still deciding if he should move or stay or —

“Kenma-san,” Lev’s familiar voice beams. Kenma can see the rest of Lev echo after him from the edge of his field of vision.

Kenma closes his eyes, opens them again.

“What is it, Lev?”

“Eh?” Lev blinks. “What’s what — oh, the door! I’m holding it open for you, so, you know, you can get the thing! Whatever that is.”

Pulling out a bottle of milk, Kenma doesn’t bother giving that an answer.

“We’re getting ice cream,” Lev continues.

Shibayama turns into the aisle as he does, carrying small cups of icecream, condensation dense around the edges.

“Ah, Kenma-san. You’re out getting something cold, too?”

“Out of milk,” Kenma mumbles, holding up the bottle. Then, nudging Lev: “Shut the door to the freezer if you’re not getting anything, Lev.”

“I will, I will,” Lev insists, though he doesn’t budge at all. “In a bit, it’s all cool and nice in here.”

“The ice cream might melt,” Shibayama tries.

Lev’s head snaps to Shibayama. The freezer door closes at once.

“You’re right.”

Shibayama’s laugh comes out startled; the corners of Kenma’s lips tug up.

Kenma tells Shibayama and Lev to pay first, deciding the milk will last longer than their ice cream. A wasted consideration, because Lev and Shibayama are still waiting for him outside the store when he steps out, frowning at the heat, humidity bearing back upon him immediately.

“Lev. Shibayama,” Kenma says.

Holding up his ice cream, Lev says, “Are you heading back now, Kenma-san? Wanna walk back together?”

“We’re heading the same way for the next few blocks,” Shibayama adds, smiling.

Ah. Kenma shrugs and starts walking, falling into step beside Lev and Shibayama when they set off, too. Lev starts on his cup of ice cream, fiddling for his spoon. Before Shibayama opens his, he asks, “Do you want one too, Kenma-san? We bought spares.”

Glancing at the side of the road, Kenma says, “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

“It’s no problem.”

The ice cream is cool in his hands, and welcome. Opening it, Kenma spoons some out, feels his mouth tug up a little wider as the cold hits his tongue. Lev launches into a story he heard from his sister the week before, Shibayama perking up when he realises where the punchline’s heading, and Kenma smiles, swallowing another spoonful.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Say it. Say it. The universe is made of stories, not of atoms._ — Muriel Rukeyser, _The Speed of Darkness_


End file.
